Chapter 614: Marching North

Many days later, a student of Gawain Orlando described the scene on the 30th day of the Revival Month in the year 738 of Ansu with these words—

When the Southern Realm opened its gates, the power of machinery and steel surged forth like a tidal wave. The wheels and tracks of war chariots crushed the land once forged by sword and fire. Before the might of Cecil, all beings would soon stand equal.

For the first time, Cecil’s magical combat legion left the Southern Realm and set foot upon the Holy Spirit Plains.

Engines roared as steel war machines, driven by gears and levers, rolled out from the Rock Fortress to the blare of horns and whistles. The massive convoy of soldiers and supplies stretched along the kingdom’s north-south highway like a great serpent. Philip sat atop a command vehicle in the middle of the first convoy, opening the armored hatch and leaning halfway out. Through the flickering glow of the vehicle’s protective shield, he gazed steadily at the column.

Heavy warhammer tanks flanked the road, their steel armor and main cannons gleaming coldly in the sunlight. Large transport trucks filled the center lane, interspersed with the “Steel Ambassadors.” Their spacious compartments were packed with fully armed soldiers. Every hundred meters or so, a truck bearing the silver-white fist insignia of the White Knight Battalion rolled by—these were troop carriers for the White Knights, the military chaplains attached to the army. Though they had yet to field their own main battle tanks, thanks to the efforts of High Patriarch Leight, their battalion was already taking shape.

Beyond the vehicles, ranks of infantry marched on foot—an essential force to maintain the war machines’ field of vision and rapid response capabilities.

The sight of this legion on the move was awe-inspiring, a stirring testament to the power of machinery and steel.

Yet, Cecil’s magical industry was still young and could not fully mechanize the entire army. At the rear of the first combat legion stretched a long line of animal-drawn wagons transporting troops and supplies. Even these beasts of burden were often equipped with howitzers or rapid-fire turrets, ensuring they were fully armed.

Philip withdrew his gaze, briefly locking eyes with a young man leaning out from a nearby war machine. The youth immediately pressed a hand to his chest and gave a respectful “half-knight’s salute.”

The young man bore the emblem of a longsword on his chest and matching insignia on his shoulder—signs that he was a knight, one of the common-born officers promoted after the founding of the Duchy of Cecil.

Philip knew him well. After all, about half of the new generation of officers in this force had been personally trained by him. He also knew that this knight, despite his title, possessed no supernatural powers—more than half of Cecil’s knights and officers were ordinary men without any extraordinary abilities.

“A new age of knights…” Philip murmured softly, but there was no trace of regret in his voice.

The people of Cecil had arrived.

Before the attendant could report, Count Pompey had already seen the vast army on the kingdom’s highway from the castle terrace. He beheld the magical industrial creations that defied common understanding. With the aid of eagle-eye magic, he clearly saw the wheels and tracks of those mechanical beasts, their artillery, and the fully armed soldiers marching alongside the convoy.

The slightly portly count stood quietly on the cold, wind-swept terrace for a long time. He not only watched the Cecil army but also thought of the force he once commanded—a band of knights leading conscripts, clad in a patchwork of armor, carrying colorful banners, and only able to form ranks to the beat of drums and flutes. He marveled that Sir Mariland of the Rock Fortress had held out for a full forty hours with such a force.

It must have been the fortress’s shields and walls that made the difference.

Later, the count left the terrace and entered the main hall of the castle, where servants had prepared a grand luncheon. He donned the formal attire he had worn only once before, when he was first ennobled—a suit now a bit tight—along with a bow tie, wig, and sash. He had his wife and children dress formally as well, as if attending a royal investiture, and they all took their seats at the table.

Once seated, the count surveyed the hall. Seeing the servants standing tensely at a distance, he smiled and said, “Come, join us.”

The servants exchanged glances but none dared move. They could not understand their master’s recent odd behavior, let alone today’s extraordinary mood.

The count merely shrugged and raised his glass, swirling the wine gently in the air as he toasted the late Francis II.

At that moment, the great doors were flung open. A breathless attendant rushed in. “My lord, they have arrived…”

“Let them in,” the count said calmly, then glanced toward the nearby musicians. “Play something solemn—‘Waltz of the Curtain Call’ would be fitting.”

The castle doors slammed open, and a squad of fully armed soldiers entered. Leading them was a striking female knight, flanked by two heavily armored white-clad warriors radiating holy light—Cecil’s “priests,” their heavily armored shock troops.

The female knight strode up to Count Pompey, holding a document. “Count, I am Margarita Kreit from Cecil, here on behalf of Duke Gawain Cecil to deliver…”

Before she could finish, the count produced a stack of sealed papers and spoke gently and deliberately: “These are the royal investiture documents from the Morn monarchy. These are the land deeds for my domain. This is the inventory of my properties outside the castle.”

He then looked at the document in the knight’s hand and nodded slightly. “Where do I sign?”

Margarita hesitated briefly, clearly surprised by the situation, but quickly recovered and handed over the papers. “At the end.”

The count took the printed sheet, glanced it over, then picked up a prepared quill. After bringing the tip close to the paper twice, he smiled wryly and looked up at the knight. “Madam, may I finish this meal before signing?”

“You may,” Margarita replied calmly, looking at the count who ruled the southernmost part of the Holy Spirit Plains, his entire domain under the Rock Fortress’s artillery coverage. “We will watch you finish.”

…

Inside a large command vehicle, Amber left the communications station and approached Gawain. “Count Pompey has signed—there really was no battle.”

The half-elf’s face was full of disbelief.

A vast, fertile, and even prosperous county had simply accepted the Duchy of Cecil’s “administration” without resistance.

Gawain merely smiled indifferently. “For that count, it’s probably a relief. At least he no longer has to agonize over whether to cling to the royalist nobility or quickly switch to the Southern Realm’s aristocracy.”

With that, he returned his attention to the tactical map before him.

On this precise map, a quarter of the Holy Spirit Plains was marked in glaring red.

The Gorgon River, running north-south, and the kingdom highway along its banks were marked in vivid blue and white.

Two arrows indicated the movements of forces: an inland fleet sailing north along the river, and an army advancing northward along the highway and across the plains.

His plan was clear and had been agreed upon by commanders and staff—the primary objective was to cut off and seal the entire eastern contaminated zone of the Holy Spirit Plains!

The “plague” unleashed by the Cult of the End of All Things was deadly and terrifying, but it still required a vector and a triggering “ritual” to spread (intelligence from Solderin and Belk). For now, the outbreak remained contained, centered around the Great Timber Pass, and had not crossed the Gorgon River.

His goal was to lock down the contamination before it crossed the river—using warships to clear the riverbanks with firepower, then mechanized units equipped with heavy flamethrowers would advance from south to north, west to east, creating isolation and purification zones. After initially controlling the infected area, mechanized forces would tighten the encirclement and gradually eliminate the Cult’s “crystal legion.”

All factories in the Southern Realm had shifted to wartime production, churning out simplified, rapid-build “flamethrower tanks.” Many civilian vessels had been requisitioned and retrofitted with small cannons and incendiary launchers. Soon, they would enter the Dorgon River through the Rock Fortress to support the first fleet. Since last year, the entire Duchy of Cecil had been consciously preparing for this war. As long as the contamination did not breach key points, this plan was the most prudent and effective.

Yet, the plan’s most vulnerable and risky element was the possibility of the contamination breaking through the blockade…

Gawain’s gaze rose to the northern end of the Gorgon River, resting on the kingdom highway’s hub, the largest city and strongest fortress on the Holy Spirit Plains—

Saint Suniel.

A city of over a hundred thousand, controlling all major routes east, west, south, and north, guarding the northern gateway. It must not fall, and it must never be contaminated!

…

North of the Pompey region, beyond a stretch of royal hills, several war machines had formed a small temporary camp. A unit was resting in the open wilderness.

A ranger clad in black light armor and a closed helmet climbed atop a vehicle, adjusting the tactical goggles’ observation mode, scanning warily across the dark expanse. Two howitzer operators and two heavy flamethrower operators sat on their respective vehicles, weapons trained in all directions—not only guarding the roads but also wary of the rocky wasteland, a lesson hard-earned after a dozen battles with those monstrous creatures.

The crystal giants were no longer human—though once mutated from humans, their powerful bodies had freed them from human constraints. They moved and attacked freely across rocky terrain, hollows, shallows, and even toxic swamps. Constant vigilance was essential.

From the capital came Knight Mitchell, with blue eyes and curly brown hair, wrapped in a blanket and leaning against a heat lamp powered by thermal runes. His gaze was complex as he watched these strange warriors from the Southern Realm. His few remaining soldiers sat nearby, mostly dazed and listless.

Even now, the noble knight felt as if trapped in a dream—waking from one nightmare only to fall into another, stranger and more surreal. In this new vision, ironclad war machines roared across the battlefield, massive explosions and deadly flames rained from the sky, and warriors calling themselves the “Iron Rangers” had saved him and his men. Their weapons and fighting style were unlike anything he had ever seen.

As a scion of a prestigious noble family in the royal capital, Mitchell had always prided himself on his broad knowledge and experience. Yet these soldiers from the southern lands—and the way they fought—were completely foreign to him.

The royal army had received weapons from the south as well. Knights carried molten-cut swords and heat-ray guns, and some units were equipped with rune-powered “light acceleration cannons.” But it wasn’t until today that Mitchell realized something crucial: what the southern forces had handed over to the kingdom’s army was merely the tip of a vast, heavily armed iceberg.

The irony was that just over a week ago, the kingdom’s commanders had been smugly confident about these new weapons, already planning a spring offensive against the eastern territories to end the war once and for all.

Now, the war was indeed over—but only the war between the crown and the east.

Mitchell chuckled bitterly to himself. Footsteps approached, and the golden-haired elven ranger settled beside him near the warming lamp.

“How’s your injury?” the elf asked.

“Almost healed. My strength is about eighty percent back,” Mitchell replied, gratitude clear in his voice. “Thank you for the alchemical potions.”

Solderin nodded. “Washing wounds with a mixture of the disease-clearing elixir and rejuvenation draught prevents infection and speeds healing without draining your energy. That’s something oral medicines alone can’t achieve.”

Mitchell smiled, though the corners of his mouth were stiff.

In the royal army—even among knights—each soldier was only allotted two bottles of alchemical potions per battle. Two! And each bottle contained barely a sip. They only dared to use them when near death.

Everyone knew that washing wounds with alchemical potions accelerated healing—but who could afford to use them freely?

After a brief awkward silence, the capital knight forced himself to change the subject. “Where are we headed next?”

“Moving toward the Gorgon River. Our ships will meet us there, and then we’ll rendezvous with the First Legion along the riverbank,” Solderin said. “Enough about that—based on your assessment, how long before those crystal cluster armies reach Saint Suniel?”

“If they don’t rest, probably about a week… and that’s because most of them can only march on foot. Their massive bodies aren’t suited for horses or vehicles,” Mitchell recalled the terrifying creatures and shivered involuntarily. “I think they can push themselves to travel nonstop for a week.”

“Then let’s assume the worst—they’ll reach Saint Suniel within a week,” Solderin frowned. “I just hope the city can hold out until the southern main forces arrive.”

As a proud noble of the capital, Mitchell immediately spoke up. “Saint Suniel has the kingdom’s strongest magical shields, self-repairing walls, hundreds of battle mage towers, and the powerful capital and royal guard knight orders. It can withstand those monsters’ assault.”

But the golden-haired high-ranking ranger merely glanced at him coolly and said calmly, “I believe in the shields, walls, and mage towers you mentioned. But I don’t have much faith in the defenders.”

Meeting the ranger’s gaze, Mitchell replied firmly, “The two knight orders will hold to the last moment.”

“…Not bad. It’s good to see knights like you still exist in the capital generation. Not everything’s rotten,” Solderin patted Mitchell’s shoulder, uncertain if it was a compliment. “Let’s hope that city can hold.”

…

Following the Gorgon River northward, between the Greatstone City and the river’s eastern bank lay the ancient city of Red Maple. The last cries of battle had finally faded.

Blood soaked the streets, shattered swords and broken bodies littered the ground, and the acrid stench of burning filled the city famed for its crimson maple leaves. Sunlight filtered through the clouds, illuminating the cooling battlefield. Under the sun’s glow, the army of crystal cluster giants was clearing the ruins, gathering spoils, and tallying losses.

A tall, gaunt man in black robes with a grim visage strode down the bloodstained street. The crystal giants around him bowed respectfully as he approached the lord’s castle square.

He was Highton, the High Priest of the Cult of the End of All Things.

Compared to before, the man had changed somewhat. Tiny crystals had sprouted on his cheeks and hands, and his eyes glowed with potent arcane energy. Though he had yet to complete the final step of his divine corruption, many signs of the transformation were already evident.

This granted him additional power and allowed him to command his vast army more effectively.

“The last to resist… mercenaries and adventurers, of all people,” the robed priest sneered as he surveyed the bodies around the square. “The local lord is a coward.”

A towering crystal giant approached, its voice hoarse and deep. “Most are cowards, with only a few exceptions.”

Highton turned slightly to look at the giant. “Korod, has the resistance in Greatstone City ended?”

“It will end soon—we’ve already taken over more than seventy percent of the city…”

“Then it’s not over yet,” Highton interrupted. “What’s the situation?”

“The so-called ‘Northern Queen’ still holds out. She and her forces control the castle district. Using the castle’s mage towers and the amplification of the magic network, a powerful blizzard surrounds the entire castle area, making it impossible to approach.”

The giant cursed under its breath. “That damned magic network—it keeps running endlessly!”

“The magic network doesn’t tire. People do. That ‘Northern Queen’ will exhaust herself eventually,” Highton said coldly. “Find a way to drain the blizzard’s magic and destroy them quickly—they’ve resisted long enough.”

“Yes.”

“More than those stubborn fools, there’s another matter that concerns me,” Highton continued. “I’ve heard there’s trouble in the south?”

“Yes. Some wandering intruders—seemingly from the southern lands—are active on the edges of our controlled territory.”

“…I don’t want distractions, but I’ve had enough of those so-called ‘Cecilites,’” Highton snorted. “Eliminate them.”

“Yes.”

(End of chapter)